


All of Them Dreams

by cashiones (terminaltongues)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Friendship/Love, M/M, Pining, Romance, Snow and Ice, Superheroes, Victor is icy- literally, but only kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2018-11-30 06:28:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11457894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terminaltongues/pseuds/cashiones
Summary: Agents of the Organization have never been strictly required to reveal their abilities to their fellow agents unless paired together on missions. As far as anyone can tell, Yuuri Katsuki, the unit's newest recruit, has no special abilities at all, and Victor Nikiforov despises him for it.A superhero AU





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> he lives (spoiler)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, friends. Here is the beginning of the beginning. The official reboot. If you are reading this for the first time then I welcome you with two big hands and a great hug. If this is not your first rodeo, then forget your first and put on a new pair of glasses. Your eyesight may change, this is true, but trust me, it is for the better.

Kyushu, Japan, 1994

Yuuri Katsuki had two birthdays. The first was on November 29. His mother called this his physical birth, because of its nature. Yuuri had always been a fairly quiet person, preferring to digest things internally, and his birth was no different. He cried initially, but they were not the wailing cries of a newborn, nothing like Mari when she was born. Rather, they were confused whimpers, a broken staccato of noises.

His second birth, known as his re-birth, occurred seven months later on the first of June. Mari was five year old at the time, full of energy and prone to throw a tantrum at any given moment. Although she would mellow out into a more relaxed adult, her adolescence was defined by sharp outbursts of emotion and physical activity.

She was practicing her cartwheels in her bedroom in front of Yuuri. Her parents had shooed her away from the main room because some of the older patrons of the family hot springs was complaining that she was making too much noise. The Katsukis had never been good at disciplining their children, so they found other ways to get what they wanted. Instead of scolding Mari for bothering the guests, she tasked her with entertaining Yuuri in her bedroom.

“You are my little trooper, aren’t you?” her mother liked to ask her, petting her head sagely. Mari loved this and would immediately salute her back and perform whatever task her mother made up for her. The resourcefulness on both ends would continue into the future when Mari officially began working for the family hot springs.

Yuuri went along with the antics of his older sister. At seven months old it mostly meant sitting on the mat near the wall and blinking at Mari as she practiced her cartwheels. When Mari successfully landed on her feet, she would clap for herself and run over to smother Yuuri’s head with kisses. Yuuri usually responded to this by pulling his thumb out of his mouth and offering Mari a confused smile, showing off his few white caps of budding teeth.

Today should have been no different.

Mari completed a particularly difficult cartwheel landing on wobbly feet and out of breath. She immediately turned to Yuuri, ready to smother him in self-congratulatory kisses, but stopped short. Yuuri was lying on his back, eyes wide open and arms splayed haphazardly. Mari frowned and crouched over his small body, poking it with a gentle finger. Yuuri didn’t react. He made no noise, and if his eyes weren’t blown wide open, Mari would have thought that he had fallen asleep.

“Yuuri-bō…”

Uncertain, Mari grabbed Yuuri’s arm, pulling it up. She dropped it, and the arm flopped down, bouncing against the mat. She was big enough to pick him up, so she does, pulling his body against hers. Her heart stuttered in her chest. Yuuri was a quiet baby, but he was never this quiet. His body felt sickly, sticky and frigid to the touch.

Mari put him down gently on the mat and ran out of the room. She found her mother putting the broom away in the supply closet. She immediately plastered herself against her mother’s leg, burying her head against her thigh.

A gentle hand parted through her unkempt, short hair.

“Mari?”

Mari tightened her grip on her mother.

“There’s something wrong with Yuuri,” she mumbled. The words came out incoherent and jumbled. The hand pats gently at her neck, ever soothing.

“Can you repeat that, Mari?”

Mari pulled back and looked up at her mother.

“There’s something wrong with Yuuri.”

Her mother’s hands paused.

“What happened?” She kept her voice calm, cautious of her eldest’s confessions. Mari often edged on the dramatic side. Reacting to her would only worsen the situation.

“I don’t know,” Mari dodged her mother’s gaze, “I was doing cartwheels, and he just fell over, and now he won’t get up.”

“Why don’t you show me,” Hiroko Katsuki suggested, keeping her voice neutral.

She managed to stifle her worried gasp when Mari lead her to the room. Yuuri was lying belly up, his skin tinged a strange blue and his usually dark eyes were a pale gold. She walked to his side and placed a careful hand against his chest.

No pulse.

“Yuuri,” she murmured. Mari seemed soothed by this gesture and let go of her mother’s hand in favor of petting at the fluff of Yuuri’s head.

“He’s just sleeping,” Mari decided, unbothered by the cold touch of his skin beneath her fingers.

Hiroko didn’t know what to think, but she nodded nonetheless and pulled Yuuri’s despondent body forward and into her arms. He was deadweight.

“Oh Yuuri,” she whispered into his neck.

She hoped that her furiously beating pulse would be enough to sustain the both of them.

Mari followed her mother and her limp brother into the kitchen where Hiroko set his body on the counter on top of a soft cloth. She grabbed a phone with her other hand.

“Who are you calling?” Mari asked, her voice muffled by the fingers in her mouth. She chewed her nails when she’s anxious. Bad habit.

Her mother swatted at the hand in her mouth without looking, eyes focused on Yuuri.

“Minako Okukawa.”

 

* * *

 

Minako arrived at the house twenty minutes later. She remained silent as she assessed Yuuri’s state, her expression carefully blank. Hiroko tried to remember not to take too much comfort in her lack of shock or fear. Minako was a professional dancer. She had been trained to keep certain expressions when under duress.

“How long has he been like this?” She didn’t touch him but raised her hand in front of his face, waving it in front of the baby’s glazed over golden eyes. Yuuri didn’t react.

“About an hour now,” Hiroko murmured, the pinch of her eyebrows betraying her worry. She was glad Toshiya had gone to the market. Despite what most people thought, she had always been better at keeping calm in stressful situations. Yuuri’s possibly dead, blue body definitely constituted as a stressful situation.

Minako turned to Mari.

“When did you find him like this?”

Mari startled. She was poking languidly at Yuuri’s small hand, folding and unfolding his fingers closed into a fist.

“I was just doing tricks, and when I looked over, he was like that,” Mari flushed. The older woman had an intense stare.

“He didn’t make a sound?”

Mari shook her head.

“Well,” Minako frowned, “I don’t know.”

Worry churned in the bottom of Hiroko’s stomach. If anyone knew what to do, she thought it would be Minako. The woman had spent the majority of her career touring different countries and continents, meeting people of all origins. Some, she liked to say, were unlike any people she had ever met. They were graced, she claimed. Hiroko had never quite understood the other woman, but part of her hoped that maybe she had seen something like this on her travels.

“Should I take him to a doctor?” Hiroko asked, resisting the urge to bite her nails like her daughter. Bad habit.

Minako’s eyebrow shot up.

“You think a doctor can tell you what this is?” she responded, incredulous. “No, whatever this is, it will reveal itself soon. All we can do is wait.”

This is her child, she wanted to argue. She couldn’t just wait to see if he lived or died. She wanted to purge her frustration on the woman, but refrained if only to spare a tantrum from Mari.

She sighed away her frustration. Whether she liked it or not, Minako was right. Her children were young now, but she has already grown accustomed to the waiting that accompanied motherhood. She had to wait for them to join in her in life for nine months, and then she had to wait for Mari to join her in speech. Now, she was waiting for Yuuri to return from where ever it is he has gone that has left his body so pale.

She closed a hand over his head, petting his forehead. She prayed she would not have to wait long.

 

* * *

 

At 10 pm the same day, Yuuri Katsuki woke.

He came back to life with a sharp cry, startling his family and Minako awake. Mari banged her head against the leg of the table she was sleeping under. She joined her brother in wailing and the Katsukis rush into action, each to a child.

Hiroko pulled Yuuri’s body into her arms, tears welling when she felt his small heart beating against her chest. He wailed and she smiled.

The wait was over.

 

* * *

 

Outside, all the flowers of a cherry tree blossomed at once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for giving this a go. Leave me a comment and a kudo. Also, if you love this story and want to see chapters in advance, let me know. I am on the hunt for a beta reader. If you are up for that, then leave me a comment.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> he's hot and he's cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally finally finally got everything figured out regarding plot development etc so it should be smooth sailing from here on out. Fingers crossed. 
> 
> Thanks for the warm comments. Y'all are sweethearts that make my heart go bump.

New York City, United States, 2016

 

Victor Nikiforov knew he was a good agent. He was thorough, efficient, and executed missions quietly. Part of his aptitude could be attributed to the fact that he was one of the youngest recruits of the Agency, the other part would be left up to discussion. Victor did not care much for the root behind his success as an agent, only that he continued to succeed. Regardless of cause, Victor  _ was  _ one of the highest ranking in the Agency, and regarded well by the Agency’s mother branch, the Organization of Peace International.

The Organization (OPI) was founded during the end of World War I, when it became clear that diplomatic fancies would not always prevail. World leaders had a tendency to have selective memories when it came to fulfilling promises and treaties. The Organization, in truth, was built off the backs of veterans of the battlefield and diplomats that went unnoticed in Paris during negotiations of The Treaty of Versailles. 

While the world leaders discussed the pillars of the future and the banks that would pay for them, these men and women from all countries met in crowded, damp cafes, sipping on hot drinks and taking notes in rushed scrawl. A gaggle of translators weaved throughout the room whispering corrections or suggestions from one part of the world to the other. There was no shouting. There were no fists beating against desks. The press would not know about this. They were at the time, a simple network of people with bleeding hearts and the steely determination to arrange what must in order to see peace managed. 

In World War II, The OPI established a branch deemed the Committee of Abnormal Matters. The idea for the committee was born when it became clear that chemical warfare wasn’t the only issue both sides had to worry about. Gruesome deaths were a part of any war, but more than before, soldiers were returning home deranged. The brought with them broken bodies and mad stories about men with hands made of fire and children that could fly between trees, their arms elongated and strong like monkeys. More and more stories surfaced. They were passed in letters home and in underground publications and started unearthing themselves in eerie nursery rhymes.

None of the stories made sense, but there was enough suspicion for the Organization to get involved, despite its depleted state. By the time the Organization decided to get involved, most of its members were drafted to fight or to partake in production for weaponry. While many politicians gave their private support to the slowly expanding organization, it was a weak network of connections that flashed brightly in some parts of the world, but could extinguish just as quickly in others. Its central headquarters in London was bombed, killing half of the staff and injuring another quarter. Those that remained were spread thin trying to keep up with the larger bases in France and the United States.

Then rumors began to spread about a boy in Italy who could see the future. Unlike the whispering of dying soldiers, this story had an unusual weight to it. It stuck on the ears of those that heard the story of the boy who escaped to Switzerland a year before the war began, claiming that Sicily was no longer safe. Nothing would have come of it if not for the fact that the boy continued to talk. He predicted bombings and assassinations and the betrayals on both sides, reporting names to his mother that he himself could hardly pronounce. Once the boy’s predictions caught wind, a sniper silenced him in the quiet of the night.

The boy’s name was Michele Crispino. His death was the catalyst that led his twin sister, Sara, to join the Committee of Abnormal Matters. She would go on to found the Agency of Abnormal Matters (AMA) within the Organization.

Victor, like all agents, knew the history of the Agency by heart. It was a requirement. In the present day, the Organization avoided the press, but it was no longer a secret initiative. Gone was the fear that the seam of the earth might split open if the Organization did not continue mending it. 

Out of necessity, The Agency remained covert. The public did not tend to react well to those born with unknowable gifts. Sara Crispino made it her mission for the AMA to be place of solace and learning for those like her brother. It was for this reason that the agency’s history was an oral one. It was the first thing new agents learned when they began training. Without it, they were nothing. Without history, they were prone to making the same mistakes as their predecessors.

It was a noble notion, Victor thought, to have history at the heart of the Agency. But he was not stupid either. The history lesson passed down to them skipped over the number of lives lost to keep the peace. It ignored those turned away and kicked out.

 It was a selective agency, and Victor had damn well earned his rank. Yet, he couldn’t help but feel disgusted by the sense of martyrdom that it seemed to instill in the agents. The agents were to melodrama like bees were to flowers.

Exhibit A: Christophe fucking Giacometti.

The Swiss man sat across from Victor in a limousine balancing a gyro, a hot dog, a pretzel, and a large soda in two hands while managing not to drop any of it on his pinstripe Valentino suit. Victor would find the energy within himself to be impressed if he wasn’t already using it on maintaining the throbbing headache the sight of the other man was eliciting from his skull.

“Don’t look at me like that, Niki,” Christophe chewed through a particularly large bite of the hot dog. A drop of mustard slid off the bun, but burned itself into ash before it could dirty his suit. 

Victor didn’t offer comment, and instead stowed his annoyance away and turned his gaze out the window to the grey, concrete jungle that made New York City. A biker zipped past the window, inches from Victor’s face before cutting across the taxi in front of him. The construction worker on the sidewalk yelled after the biker, seemingly, out of spite. His profanities were lost the sound of honking and the drill behind him.

Victor had never liked Manhattan. He hated the sweltering heat of it in the summer and the bitter cold of the winter. Regardless of weather, people seemed to cling together like globs of sticky ink. Victor was not unacquainted with competition, but here competition was synonymous with survival and every pedestrian looked ready to slit a throat if necessary.

“You’d think this thing would be a little more breathable,” Christophe whined, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand and tugging at the lapels of his suit with the other.

Victor turned back, unsurprised to see the other man’s food gone, swallowed in a matter of minutes. Christophe had always been like that, Victor mused, even when they were young. Despite his keen eye and careful calculations, he had always indulged in carnal pleasures and immediate gratification. Most people that met him attributed his fast metabolism and personality to the heat in his blood and his power that allowed him to command.

“You just ate enough for three people,” Victor replied, voice flat.

Christophe feigned being wounded.

“Are you calling me fat? Please Victor don’t say that. You know I am sensitive about my weight. You know I eat when I am nervous. My first time in the States and we aren’t even going to see a baseball game or go to the big building…” Christophe snapped his fingers, “What’s it called?”

Victor didn’t bother with a response. Christophe wasn’t nervous. The other man wouldn’t be on this mission if he was nervous. He had lost the ability to be anything but cocky, hungry, and ambitious bordering on ruthless since the moment he was promoted to an active field agent of the Agency.

The driver rolled down the petition.

“We’re here.”

Victor opened the door and got out.

“The Empire State Building,” he muttered under his breath.

“That’s the one!” came Christophe’s pleased shout as he clambered out after him.

Victor rolled his eyes, but allowed the hard pat on the back that followed.

 

* * *

 

 

The philosophy of the Agency held peace at its center, so despite Victor’s ability to send icicles shooting through the target’s skull and Christophe’s ability to melt skin from bones, Victor was engaging in small talk. The woman in his company was dressed in a sparkling number with a plunging neckline that irritated Victor to look upon. His only weapon against her was a coy smirk and a half-empty flute of champagne he had been nursing since they walked in to the gala. No names had been exchanged thus far, but Victor suspected that the woman would find someone else to entertain her before they got that far in conversation.  

"...I'm sure you understand," she was saying. Victor nodded in agreement, letting his blade-sharp smile speak for itself. The woman flushed under it, clearly pleased to have his attention on her. For a moment, Victor even pitied her. "As I was saying, I always prefer the company of musicians, you know.” She placed a hand on his shoulder and offered him a particularly suggestive smirk, thin lips revealing unnaturally white teeth. 

Victor resisted the urge to do anything but nod back politely. His cover was as a pianist visiting to play at an avant-garde art show. The artist behind the work was rumored  anonymous. It was an underground show with a selective invite list. The concept was just pretentious enough to keep details like name, time, and location shrouded in mystery. It kept him in a convenient spot between unknown and desirable. 

Nothing appealed to the wealthy housewives of the Upper East Side more than spending their husbands' money on something that would piss them off. Oddly, alternative performance art seemed to fit the bill every time. Just as odd was Christophe’s insistence that Victor play the role. The Agency’s directors loved the idea and approved it without blinking an eye despite Victor’s outrage. He may have high ranking within the Agency, but Christophe was not so far below him.

"It's your eyes," Christophe had claimed, "They have that ice-cold melancholy that every woman loves. ‘Save me,’ they cry. Add the mysterious artist persona, and the donors will be eating out of your hand." This was also, Christophe reasoned, why he couldn’t play the role as Jean-Claude Cherbowsky. “No one pulls off the tortured artist look quite like you, Niki.” 

Christophe, the bastard, was attending under the guise of a foreign investor. He, too, fit the part. His demeanor was sharp and clean, but his beard and striped suit give him an edge of confidence and playfulness that indicated wealth. It was a familiar arrogance that had most of the other men flocking to him to shake his hand discuss bitcoin. 

Victor resented the other man, but knew it was for the best. If their roles were switched, he imagined his apparent ‘ice-cold melancholy’ might have an opposite effect on the businessmen in the room. 

"Of course, I have heard such good things about the performance. You know my granddaughter is a very talented violinist. I swear the dear started playing before she was walking. I'm sure you two would get on just fine..." the woman droned on. 

"I've got my eyes locked on the target," Christophe's voice notified him from the small comm unit in his ear. Without looking, Victor knew Christophe was stationed by the bar, drinking from a glass of gold liquid and looking imperiously out on the dance floor where a handful of people were swaying in tune with the live band. 

The target of the night was by no means as ostentatious as the rest of the partygoers. He was dressed in a plain black suit, with a black tie and black shoes to match. He had deep set eyes with an impressive set of eye bags beneath them- the kind men over the age of sixty acquired- despite his age of thirty-nine. He was also the only man in the room visibly sweating. 

Victor had been tracking him throughout the night, watching the way he was continuously adjusting his cufflinks and dabbing at his neck with a handkerchief. Victor would be nervous too if he was embezzling funds from the company the gala was honoring. The name of the company,  _ Clrcell, _ was painted in large bold letters on big banners behind the band with a neat list of previous donors beneath it. His alias,  _ J.C Cherbowsky, _ was the third name listed. The target’s name, Gulfrik Harney, was further down the list. His name followed Clara Harney, his wife, and consequently the founder of  _ Clrcell. _

It was neither here nor there that Gulfrik was also one of the Senators of the state. What mattered was the fact that  _ Clrcell  _ was one of the largest nonprofits in the world and supplied necessities like vaccinations and water filters to those in need across the globe. If news of the embezzlement, by the company’s founder’s husband no less, got out, it could mean severing ties with some of the company’s wealthiest donors. 

Victor offered Christophe a curt nod in response, hardly noticeable if the other man was not on the lookout for it.

"I need you to wrap things up with Goldie, and get to the checkpoint." 

Their job was two-fold. They needed to avoid, at all costs, publicly exposing the Senator’s scandal. The mission, or rather the plea for help, was originally sent from Clara Harney, the Senator’s wife, who had connections to one of the Organization's members in Moscow. The AMA wouldn’t have taken it up if not for the mystery that surrounded the Senator’s exploits, and the insistence that it be looked into by one of the Agents working undercover as an intern at the Senator’s office. The money couldn’t be tracked, and from what Clara had reported, it was as if it was disappearing into thin air. She suspected drugs, but wasn’t sure.

It was their job to find out where the money was going and simultaneously insure that no one else leaked the information. If the news had reached as far as the Agency base in Russia, there was no telling who else in the room was keeping it tucked in their pockets to use as leverage or blackmail. 

Victor didn’t respond to Christophe’s message, but he flicked an invisible speck of dust off of his shoulder before turning back to the woman who, Victor noted, did bear strong resemblance to Goldie Hawn, and pulled out his sharpest smile. 

The appearance of teeth sent the woman into a tizzy, so much so that she stopped speaking entirely in favor of blinking owlishly, mouth agape.

"I have loved talking to you," Victor murmured, leaning in as if just the two of them were conspiring against the rest of the world, "and you must take your granddaughter to my performance, but I must excuse myself. I have some business that just can’t wait."

The woman nodded her ascent, boasting pink, flustered cheeks, and a delighted smile. 

“Oh,” the woman gasped, “I think I understand perfectly.” Without a word more, she waltzed away,  the jewels on her dress winking back at Victor. 

Victor held a tight-lipped smile for a moment before making his way across the room and up the grand staircase snaking around the edge of the large ballroom to the second floor. Victor had the layout of the building memorized and two cuban cigars tucked into the underside of his coat. It was Christophe’s job to get the Senator to Victor so he could get him alone for interrogation.

Victor perched himself against the wall next to one of the large rectangular windows overlooking the city street. He could just spot Central Park’s verdant entrance in the distance. Before long, Gulfrik made his appearance, eyes darting wildly as he came into view at the top of the steps. 

Victor could identify the moment the Senator’s eyes landed on him. They seemed to freeze, a frenzied terror shining through them. 

He stepped forward, saccharine smile, edged with menace in place. He pulled out the cigars and gestured down the hall towards the stairwell. 

“Smoke?” Victor asked, teeth exposed and shark-like. 

For a moment, the expression on the other man’s face went entirely blank, as if he couldn’t quite believe what Victor was asking him. It cleared a moment later, returning to its terrified state. For a politician, he was abnormally expressive. Victor didn’t crave conflict in the same way Christophe did, but he had expected this mission to be more than coaxing a mousey man not to piss his pants.

Victor turned and started walking. He didn’t have to turn to know the Senator was following close behind. 

The Gala took place on the first two floors of the building, a grand hotel located a few blocks from the east entrance of Central Park. Victor and the Senator walked in silence as they climbed the steps all the way to the 14th floor and out to the roof. 

The view, Victor knew, was astounding, but he did not turn to appreciate it. His attention remained a narrow scope of the Senator's breathing and the background muffle coming through the comms unit. 

Victor didn't stop walking until he was near the edge of the roof, standing by the side of the building that overlooked the park. This was his fourth time in New York City, and he had never been afforded the time to take a stroll in its green heart. He imagined what it might be like in the crisp of fall, early in the morning to sit on a bench, hidden from the city and just think. The footfall of passing joggers and his own breathing would be a soft concerto set aside for his ears alone. He was quick to wrap the fancy and tuck it somewhere deep inside himself. People like Victor could not afford even the thought of it. It would be his undoing. 

Instead, he kicked aside an old cigarette bud and turned to face his target. The Senator stood near the entrance, eyes flickering continuously to the edge, as if he were contemplating jumping. But the Senator did not move. Victor doubted he had the courage to even move a step. Good. Such fear often lead to compliance. 

Victor pulled out one of the Cuban cigars and offered it to the Senator again. Gulfrik gave a short shake of the head and wiped at his brow with his handkerchief, eyeing the cigar as if it might attack him. Victor shrugged and lit it before taking a long drag. 

On principle, Victor did not smoke. However, he knew the affect it could have, and was proven right when the Senator's eyes tracked the movement. If Victor was good at anything, it was playing the part. 

He dragged in a long puff of smoke before letting it blow out. 

"Nothing is easier than to denounce the evildoer; nothing is more difficult than to understand him."

Gulfrik's forehead crinkled and his eyes went glassy with confusion. 

"Dostoevsky?" He said. His voice was scratchy with disuse, but it surprisingly, did not shake.

"You're a man of law? Of government? I am not surprised you know Dostoevsky," Victor started. "I am sure, then, that you, more than most, are familiar with the difficulty of understanding evil." Victor paused to give the Senator a moment to digest his words and took another drag of smoke. He imagined the dark smoke forming angry eddies in his lungs. The cigars had also been Christophe’s idea.

Gulfrik moved as if to step closer to Victor, perhaps in a move to appease, but then seemed to think better of it and teetered back. 

"I don’t know what you mean to say," the Senator cleared his throat.

“What I find,” Victor continued, “is that the cause behind most evils is monetary.”

The Senator visibly paled. 

“Who are you?” He whispered. 

Victor let the man sweat in his discomfort and took another drag. Interrogations of any sort were often more about what was left unsaid.

“Who I am is irrelevant. What matters is that you have some information that I need.” Victor channeled inward, pushing his powers outward and chilling the air around them. The Senator’s shaky breath blew out icy and white. His breath hitched and he choked on the frozen air. 

“Please, you don’t understand-” Victor didn’t let him finish. He was on the offensive now. 

“Tell me where the money is going,” Victor commanded. 

“I don’t know-” 

“Don’t bother.” With a flick of the wrist, Victor drew out a blade. It was made entirely of ice, but gleamed just as dangerously as steel. “What are you doing with the embezzled funds?” 

All at once, the Senator’s defenses seemed to break.

“Oh god, no. Please, there must be a mistake,” the Senator was babbling. His words seemed to blur together in a flurry of panic and sweat. 

Victor heaved a sigh. Perhaps he had been too soon with the knife display. 

“Tell me where the money is going,” he repeated, words clear and concise. 

“You’re one of them. Aren’t you? Oh, god aren’t you?” Gulfrik jabbered on, eyes glued to the knife. He began scrambling at his coat, hands trying to pull it open. 

Victor started, waiting for the appearance of a weapon. A sharp noise, like a door slamming, sounded and the Senator’s eyes went bulbous with shock before falling limp to the ground. A patch of red blossomed on his chest.

Victor cursed. 

“Ice Storm,” Christophe spoke quietly in his ear. “Check in.”

Victor’s mind reeled quietly. He stared dumbfounded at the now dead Senator. There was a sniper on premises. Why the fuck was there a sniper on premises?

“Ice Storm,  _ Check in.” _

“Target down,” Victor muttered. 

“ _ What?” _

“You heard me,” Victor said, agitated. “There’s a sniper on site.” 

“Ice Storm,” Christophe rattled on, but Victor tuned him out momentarily.

He kneeled down to check the body, patting it down and checking for pulse. He was definitely dead. Victor took his time with it; If the sniper wanted him dead, then he would be dead. The shot was clean and cut and obviously planned- as if they were waiting for the Senator to come up. The thought troubled him. There was no way anyone should have known that the Senator would come to the roof. 

While patting over the suit, Victor’s fingers brushed against a slight lump in the fabric. He pulled it open, revealing a white envelope tucked into an inner breast pocket. Victor examined the top of it, noting its torn opening. Inside was a note written on creamy stationary.

_ I fear our business is through _

 

_ -J _

 

Victor stared at the note for a moment longer before tucking it way in his own pocket. Questions began to stir in the back of his mind, but he pushed them away. He didn’t have time to dwell right now.

“Heatwave, we need to leave now,” Victor spoke up, tuning back into to Chris’ ramblings. 

“Jesus Christ! That’s what I have been trying to tell you. You know, I hate when you ignore me like that. It’s stupid and frankly rude.” 

Victor could practically see the Swiss man pouting. 

“I’ll meet you at the front.”

“No! You’re not listening to me. You can’t come down. You have to take the body and-” 

The sound of the door creaking cut into the feed. The door opened completely and out came the woman before, sparkly dress and a full glass of champagne in each hand. The sultry expression set on her face fell promptly when her eyes landed on Victor. Victor, who, at the moment, was kneeling over a dead, bloody body. 

Before Victor could react, the woman dropped the glasses and let out a blood-curdling scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> leave me a comment and yell at me if i don't update in two weeks 
> 
> thanks friends!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I definitely thought I was going to have this chapter out a lot earlier than now. A big shout out to Nightcloud because this chapter would not have been posted if they had not reminded me that it existed.

   

 

“Jesus Christ,” Victor muttered. He pulled himself upright, away from the body and straightened his suit. He would not be caught off guard. He put his hands up in a placating manner and tried to approach the woman.

The woman’s scream died out momentarily caught off guard by Victor’s movement. Her gaze reached Victor’s, and they held eye contact. Victor sucked in a breath. Maybe he could salvage this. He continued to approach her as if she was a wounded animal, inching forward at a minuscule pace. Her eyes darted back and forth between the body and Victor before she seemed to make some kind of decision and began screaming again, full-blown cries of distress.

She was not crying for anyone, in particular, wailing in the way a siren does to attract attention. This high on the roof, no one would hear her anyway, but it didn’t seem to matter. The damage was done, and Victor could see the vicious pleasure in the woman’s eyes as she screamed bloody murder. He imagined she was already weaving the tale in her mind and fixing different versions to tell at cocktail parties and coffee dates.

Victor cursed, annoyed, before charging at the woman. He felt the ice in his veins surge forward coming through his fingertips, eager as always to be released. In a flurry of motion, the woman’s cries were cut short as Victor’s hands secured around her wrists and the woman went still. A fine layer of blue crystal engulfed her, the tendrils of ice spanning from where Victor held her. In a moment’s time, the woman’s body was frozen solid, her face stuck in its crumpled expression. She stared past Victor with unseeing eyes.

“I’ll be down in five,” Victor spoke, his voice short.

“What have you done?”

Victor didn’t bother with a response, too focused on setting the woman’s frozen body against the wall. It would thaw out in an hour or so. Victor was a talented agent, but this form of temporary paralysis took him years to master. He avoided it when necessary, as it had a completely disorienting effect on the one experiencing the freeze. The woman will probably not remember who or where she was for a few minutes after she defrosts completely. The event of her meeting Victor and discovering him near the Senator will not surface in her mind until hours after she is conscious. It was a handy tool, but it was not a foolproof manner of evasion. Victor suspected that she would remember both his face and his name. He took a moment to heave a sigh in regret already anticipating the consequences of the night.

“I’m headed down. Meet me at the entrance or I am leaving without you.”

Victor could practically feel Christophe’s responding glare coming through the comms unit.

 

* * *

 

 

The drive back to their hotel was silent. Christophe was behind the wheel, weaving expertly in and out of the thrum of traffic. It was Victor’s idea to stash a car in the parking garage down the street in case they needed to make a quick exit. Christophe was the picture of fury when he met Victor in the lobby, but Victor had simply handed him the keys and brushed passed the fuming man. Christophe was not difficult to ignite.

Despite his obvious annoyance, Christophe made no comments in Victor’s direction. He did not attempt jokes or comment on the faint smattering of blood staining Victor’s suit. There was nothing for him to say. They both knew Victor was at fault here and anything they said to each other now would not change the consequences ahead.

It was a sloppy mistake. Gulfrik’s assassination was unexpected and out of Victor’s hands, but it was his job to be prepared for the worst-case scenario. Victor should never have brushed the woman aside so quickly. He had not anticipated she would follow him up to the roof and his dismissiveness would cost him. It wasn’t as if Christophe hadn’t tried to warn him either. Perhaps the Swiss man could have done more. Perhaps he could have intercepted the woman before she began her trek up the stairs. He was supposed to be Victor’s eyes and ears. He was supposed to have Victor’s back.

But Victor couldn’t be angry. They were trained to put the mission above all else, and involving himself with the woman may have been more of a danger than it was worth. Victor suspected Christophe had weighed his options and letting Victor take the fall was the one with the least collateral damage. It was how they had been taught to proceed. Victor would not fault him for that. He would have done the same.

After they got back to their hotel, they made quick work of packing their belongings. Victor listened to the sound of Christophe making a quiet phone call as he changed out of his bloodied suit in the bathroom. When he came out, the man’s expression was grim.

“The Agency has been notified,” he said, voice carefully devoid of inflection.

Victor gave a quick nod in acknowledgment and withheld another tired sigh.

It was done.

 

* * *

 

   

“I miss the little nut packages,” Christophe pouted. He twirled his fork into his seasoned chicken, dragging it into his rice pilaf before letting it fall into a heap of roasted potatoes. Victor did not touch his food. His gaze was focused on the lazy sweep of clouds lying across the expanse of the sky like streaks of white paint.

“They used to give out little packages of peanuts and pretzels and hand out cups of ginger ale. What happened to those days, Niki?”

Victor got the sense that Christophe was always in the process of an internal monologue, and in dull moments, he simply verbalized the constant track of words flowing through his mind. Victor’s response was more of a formality than an actual attempt at engaging in conversation.

“I am sure the Agency would have no problem booking you an economy class ticket if your tire of this bourgeois style of transportation.”

Christophe picked up his fork and gave the chicken a dejected stab.

“A tempting prospect, but I couldn’t,” Christophe said. He stayed quiet after that, taking time to actually eat his meal rather than antagonize it. Victor suspected the rest of this particular monologue would continue in the other man’s head.

Victor let him be.

Despite the dreary fate that undoubtedly awaited them when they touched down, Christophe was in high spirits. He had always been like that even when they were just boys training all day with little rest between tests and exercises. While the other children stewed in their misery and bruises, Christophe moved on to the next task at hand, eager to direct his never-ending supply of energy somewhere else. If he held it in, it would be dangerous to himself and those around him.

Victor’s energy was different. Calling upon the ice in his veins took precise concentration. Its manifestation was a fickle thing at best, as it was for most people gifted with an aptitude for ice. Unlike Christophe whose trainings consisted mainly of physical movement and exercises, the Agency called upon artists and chemists alike to help Victor hone his skills once it became clear he would exceed his potential.

He could tell Christophe already processed the failed mission. There was no use in dwelling on it any longer, and clean up was already underway. Victor’s acceptance was a sluggish thing, writhing lazy and vexed in the back of his mind. The woman’s face, frozen in a silent scream flashed intermittently in his head. How could he have missed it? Was he getting sloppy? Was he getting too old?

“Don’t look so glum. I’m sure Felty has already forgotten about the whole thing.”

“I do not look glum,” Victor intoned.

Christophe smiled and shrugged.

“Perhaps. But I know beneath all that ice is blood that flows to a heart.”

“I am human,” Victor reminded him.

“Yes yes,” Christophe rolled his eyes, “You are unknowable. You are the mysterious Ice Storm with a heart steel. Please, Niki. The new recruits are beginning to think you are actually made of ice.”

“I don’t care for the opinions of greenies,” Victor muttered.

“Oh?”

There was a sharp excitement in Christophe’s voice that made Victor perk up and eye the other man wearily.

“There must be one you care for.” Christophe began twirling his fork through his food again, equal parts playful and biting.

Victor’s eyes narrowed.

“There is not,” Victor replied curtly.

Christophe hummed.

“So you wouldn’t mind if word got back around to Katsuki? You wouldn’t wonder what passed through that brain of his when news of your failure reached his ears?”

Victor’s jaw flexed, but he did well to hide his surprise at the mention of the new recruit’s name. Perhaps Christophe was still agitated and this was him poking at Victor’s sore spots vindictively. Victor didn’t think so. It was more likely that the other man was just bored and trying to get a reaction out of the Russian was the only thing entertaining enough to pass the time. Victor would not be so artless to let the man’s baleful attempts at teasing show.

“No.” Victor held his voice steady.    

Christophe’s lip twitched as if he knew, despite Victor’s hard exterior, that he had struck a nerve.

“Guess not,” the Swiss man declared before pulling a pair of headphones over his ears leaving Victor to stir in his own annoyance.

Yuuri Katsuki was the Agency’s newest recruits. As much as Christophe liked to tease, he wasn’t wholly wrong about his distaste for the young man. From what Victor understood, the Japanese man was a special case and the details of his recruitment were shrouded in mystery in secrecy. His information was being held a secret for safety concerns.

It was unsettling to have a stranger in his home. Victor had always been the best of the best since his days as a trainee at the Switzerland facility where recruits poured in by the hundreds. If there was one thing Victor couldn’t stand, it was not knowing his enemy. The only thing worse than that was not knowing his enemy in his own home.

Since Yuuri’s arrival, he’s done little else besides reading books, eating, and occasionally meeting with a trainer, whose identity also remained private. While Victor was out in the field risking his life for the Agency, Katsuki spent his days leisurely strolling the grounds and reading poetry. It angered Victor enough that Christophe had caught on to it and took every opportunity to tease him about it.

Victor found that he was better off not thinking about the man at all.

 

* * *

 

 

Celestino Cialdini and Yakov Feltsman were among the first generation members of the Agency of Abnormal Matters. After World War II, the Agency struggled to establish international roots. By the 1960's, the Swiss and Russian sister facilities had been established but went through long periods without communication due to the tense atmosphere of the Cold War. It was during this time that Celestino and Yakov joined the Agency.

Victor could see the weight of the Agency’s history on the skin of the directors as soon as he walked into the debrief room. Yakov, older than the other director by fifteen years, had small, systematic scars running from his upper left cheek down to his lip where the skin remained ghostly and puckered. Despite the cruelty of his appearance, the director’s demeanor was calm. He ruled with an iron fist, but a fair heart.

Celestino, on the other hand, was known for his dry humor and quick wit. While Yakov served as the head director for the Russian facility, Celestino traveled frequently between the sister facility in Switzerland as well as the smaller outlying recruiting centers in other countries. His skin remained tanned and fairly unwrinkled despite his age.

Most of the greenies were familiar with the older man and some even mistook him for one of the on-staff trainers. Victor knew that despite his friendly face, the brunt of Celestino’s age and experiences were visible in his hands. Known for his ability to break bones with his superior strength, Celestino’s hands were more weapons than tools. Victor noted, as he sat down across from them in the sparsely-decorated room, that they were both laid out flat on the table, their scarred and burned flesh exposed in the same way one might leave a gun visible on their hip. A warning. A threat.

“Agent Nikiforov,” Director Celestino greeted with a short wave of his hand.

Victor looked pointedly at the hand and raised an eyebrow.

The other man laughed in return while Yakov stared at Victor with a hard expression. Meetings with both of the directors in the same room always left Victor feeling like he had whiplash.

“Where is Agent Giacometti?” Victor inquired. While they both filed separate reports, it was general practice to debrief together for partner missions.

“Indisposed,” Yakov responded.

“We felt, given the circumstances, it would be best to have individual discussions.”

Victor pursed his lips. What that really meant was that Christophe’s repercussions wouldn’t be as severe. It could also mean that the other man sold him out before they returned. Christophe was so unpredictable, it was hard to say which was more likely.

“I see,” Victor muttered.

“I would like to start by playing a recorded message for you. I believe you may be familiar with the subject.” Celestino’s voice held a saccharine quality that set Victor on edge.

Yakov produced a small remote and hit play. A woman’s tinny, distressed voice came through the speakers attached to the walls of the room.

“I don’t know what you think you are doing. Don’t touch me!”

Victor’s jaw twitched in annoyance. It was the woman from the ball.

“Ma’am, we need you to come this way so we can check to make sure you’re alright.”

“Alright? Alright? How do you expect me to be alright after witnessing a murder! I’ll have you know that-” The recording cut off and remained a buzzing of silence before another voice picked up.

“That,” the voice said, feminine and touched heavily with anger, “was the sound of Eliza Bentwell, one of _ClrCell’s_ top donors. She is now the sole witness to my husband's murder."

The new voice belonged to Clara Harney

"I have been an avid supporter of the OPI for years, but I would never condone murder, especially not of my own husband. If you think for an instant that I won’t expose the AMA and the OPI for their backward way of dealing with things then you are sadly mistaken. This is a violation of human decency and I will not rest until I have justice for Gulfrik…” Mrs. Harney continued on, bringing up the threat of lawyers and public humiliation.

Victor tuned it out, his mind whirring. This was a lot worse than he anticipated. It had all spiraled out of control so quickly that he could hardly believe that it was less than 48 hours ago.

The recording finished playing, and the men sat in silence in the room listening to the tinny sound following the woman’s voice before it ended with a final click. Victor made no move to defend or explain himself. They were all aware of the error he had made. Victor was just waiting for judgment to be passed, and from the way Celestino’s hands kept moving, vibrating with unkempt energy, they had already discussed his fate before Victor had walked in the room. All he had to do was wait.

Celestino wasted no time indulging in his thoughts.

“I did not previously believe that you needed to be reminded of the importance of our donors. Mrs. Harney has been a long supporter of the Agency as was her father before her. To cut ties with such an influential benefactor could lead to the detriment of the Agency and could have repercussions within the Organization as a whole. If Mrs. Harney stands true to her threats, it could mean millions of dollars wasted on damage control.” The older man spoke with sharp criticism.

It didn’t surprise Victor. Despite his brute reputation, Victor knew that the real power behind Celestino was his eyes. They were sharp and keen at picking out mistakes and patterns. He had been keeping his eyes on Victor for years, waiting for him to make a mistake. Now that he had, he was making no effort to hide his satisfaction in dissecting it inch by inch.

Yakov remained. He only stared at Victor with his imposing, stone face.

“As such,” Celestino was saying, “We have decided that you should take a break from field duty until this dies down.”

Victor couldn’t help the way his jaw snapped shut in surprise. He had been imagining many different penalties, but this had never crossed his mind.

“Meaning?” He asked, voice gruff.

“Meaning you are on probation,” Yakov spoke up, voice heavy with finality.

Victor let the news settle in with a blank face. The initial shock he felt melted into anger before settling back into something akin to bewilderment.

“How long?

“Until further notice,” Celestino announced.

Victor nodded once, slow and perfunctory.

“Is that all?”

Celestino offered him a dismissive wave, but Victor remained seated, pinned by Yakov’s hard stare.

“Just so you are aware, the sniper you reported in your report checked in three days prior to the event. The same man, under two separate aliases, was also checked in ot two hotels in the surrounding vicinity two weeks before you and Agent Giacometti arrived in New York,” Yakov stated. It was the most he had said the entire meeting. Celestino frowned, seemingly annoyed by his partner’s divulgence of information.

Victor didn’t wait for a second dismissal before he exited the room. He also didn’t miss the Yakov’s message. Regardless of whether Victor was pinned with the blame, the assassination would have gone through. It had already been premeditated. He didn’t know yet how he was involved, but Yakov wouldn’t have mentioned it if it wasn’t important. Victor was set up. He just needed to figure out why.

 

* * *

 

Victor made it half a step out the door before his body collided with another. He regained balance in less than a second, but the other body went tumbling to the ground, their belongings spilling out as they did. Victor looked down.

It was Yuuri Katsuki.

The dark-haired man was lying dazed. He had one hand on a fallen book and the other splayed across the floor. His glasses were askew and his cheeks were violently flushed. It looked oddly becoming on the pale man’s face. Victor felt his irritation spike at the thought. Yuuri Katsuki was perhaps the last person he wanted to see right now.

“I’m sorry,” Katsuki said, his voice barely a faint whisper. It was not what Victor expected. In his head, he imagined the other man to hold more hubris, but right now he was the picture of timorousness and mortification. He looked on silently as the agent gathered his things and stood up. He did not respond to the apology nor did he help him up.

The other man was off and gone in a matter of seconds. Victor caught the flash of a book title before the man disappeared from sight. _Experiments on Plant Hybridization_.

It gave Victor pause. Another addition to the mystery.

He scoffed at himself and headed towards his room.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not a huge of this chapter, but it is what it is. Please leave a review on your way out. I love hearing what you all think is going to happen next.


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